Against the Gods

Chapter 1

A Dying Man’s Wish

In a quiet village near Athens, a young man is running as fast as he can to aid an elderly man. The elderly man isn’t related to the young man, but still, the old man has looked over the young man for as long as he could remember.

“Patricius!” shouted an on-looker. Patricius ran until he couldn’t feel the bottoms of his feet bouncing on the worn-out souls of his sandals. Patricius was an orphan and never knew his mother or father. All he had was one memory in particular of his mother, and in that memory, he remembered that his mother had a beautiful glow encompassing her like she was a goddess fallen from Olympus. Her hair and eyes were darker than the ocean on a moonless night. He remembered her scent of fruit and lavender. Even though he would tell himself that it was only in his head, he would always remember how real it felt, and regardless of if it was made up or real he was happy with his memory.

Out of breath and wincing at the cramping and pinching pain in his side, Patricius had arrived at the old man’s little hut. His trusty white horse was outside his tent, whining and upset. The boy stroked the horse's back and shushed it back to calm its nerves. Patricius remembered the horse as far back as he could. The horse had outlived every other horse in the village, and still, it looked as if it hadn’t aged a single day since he was a boy. On either side of the horse were dark stained brush marks against him, almost as if his sides had been brushed and burnt by a smoldering fire. Patricius continued to calm down the horse as its front feet galloped high into the amber sky.

“Whoa, P! Calm down. Calm down, boy. I’m going in.” The boy had never known the full name of the horse other than what the old man called it, “P.” Whenever Patricius asked the old man what the “P” actually meant, he would say, “It’s short for pain in the callipygian.” So, he just continued to call him P. And for whatever reason, Patricius was the only one who could ride him and tame him. The other boys and men in the village had tried at one point or another to break him, but P would just rebel and those who dared attempt to saddle him, were made quick but lifelong examples of their mistake. Patricius, however, could ride him, through any condition and at any time.

Without looking in Patricius walked into the old man’s hut. An inordinate and powerful man wearing a heavy cotton cloak with his hood put up rushed out of the tent, knocking Patricius to the hard-mounted ground. What is going on today? thought Patricius. The man towered over Patricius like a tree towers over a blade of grass. Though Patricius was below the man, he could not make any distinct facial markings other than his long and tidy grey bread that hid a chiseled square jaw, like that of a familiar statue. The man reached down with his boulder hands and effortlessly pulled Patricius to his feet. The man continued to study Patricius from beneath his hood. Patricius stared back but continued to be silent. He felt a strange connection with the man as if he had known him or met him already. The two studied each other’s movements and sized the other up.

Finally, the burly man snickered out a laugh and said, “Go to him, Patricius. He needs you.” After a moment, before Patricius could find the correct words to say, the man had draped his hood as low as it could stretch and walked off into the distance. Within an instance, the man had vanished into the crowd.

Patricius, befuddled, walked into the tent to find the old man. The man had gone blind many years ago, and his eyes were a hollow and lifeless gray. his wrinkled skin grew as pale as the mountain snow, his tunic wrinkled and disheveled, his face unshaven, and his skin beaten raw. The only thing that shined about the old man was a gold ring. Patricius had never seen the old man wear the ring before, in all of his time he'd known him. But, he had no time to question him now. The old man was now lying on his bed of hay, struggling to find his breath.

The old man could hear the heavy panting of Patricius as he bent over and put his hands on his knees, still trying to catch air in his thirsty lungs, knocking off the dirt from his back.

“Patricius… thank... you for coming.” The old man spoke. His voice was broken but still full of the authority and wisdom of someone who had lived a long and tortured life.

“Why in the name of the Gods did you ask for me, Pragmis? Shouldn’t you have called out for someone else? Altia or any of the other healers? And who was that man that was in here?” Patricius said.

The old man smiled weakly and gathered his composure as he heard Patricius’ voice of concern. “He was a healer, of sorts.”

“Of sorts, what do you mean? Not that magic the Persians seem to praise.” Patricius scoffed. Pragmis’ only response was a loud chuckle.

“Patricius, my dear boy, I am afraid I am at the end. No one, not even the great Gods can save my spirit now, let alone the farce of Persian magic. I am too old and too tired to keep fighting the inevitable. But before I go…” The old man winced in pain and clutched his chest. Patricius rushed to the old man and grabbed his hand off his chest and sat beside him. The old man, though blind, looked Patricius in the eye and smiled.

“We really should get you to the temple.” Patricius urged as he grabbed the old man, but the old man refused and shouted at him.

“Put me down! I AM GOING TO DIE MY WAY THIS TIME. NOT BY SOMEONE ELSE’S.”

Patricius put the old man back onto his bed, carefully at first then remembering his anger he light-handedly threw him onto the makeshift bed, like throwing a fragile jar into a pile of hay. Though the old man couldn’t see it, he could feel the frustration and confusion coming off Patricius.

“What do you mean? This time?” Patricius said, now sitting beside the old man’s bed.

“That, my boy, is why I called for you. There is something you must know. I must get this out, seeing as how I am already at the end.”

“No, Pragmis. We don’t have time for a lecture or another one of your stories. We need to go! You can tell me when you’re well.” Patricius stood up and began looking outward the door for someone to help him carry Pragmis.

“So caring and kind... just like your mother.” Pragmis smiled, and laughed “And stubborn, too. That’s from your father.”

Patricius said nothing but merely looked at the old man, as he continued laughing.

“Yes, yes, I knew your mother and father.”

“But how? Why?… All this time?…. You knew them!” His voice rose with anger as he threw the stool he was sitting on across the hut.

“Patricius, please, let me explain.”

“No! Why should I? You’ve kept this a secret the whole time! I should let you die here alone.”

“Ah, but you won’t. You’re a good man, Patricius. Just like your father was.” Pragmis could hear the anger seeping through Patricius’s tight-locked lips. “I taught you many things, Pragmis. I taught you how to fight, taught you how to have empathy and sympathy. I even taught you how to pray and give thanks to the gods… even though they never return the favor.”

The old man was right. Patricius wouldn’t leave. It was merely an empty threat, to get the old man to wise up, another thing that Pragmis taught him.

“Please, Patricius, listen to a dying man. Consider it a last request, before he is sent to the River Styx. That is if Hades lets me come back.”

Patricius grabbed the stool that he flung across the hut earlier and began to sit with his arms folded across his chest.

“Speak quick old man, from the look of you it doesn’t look like you’ll make it through another sentence, let alone a full story.” Pragmis smiled and began to look at the torn cloth ceiling of his hut, breathing in deep breaths as his mind traveled back in time.

“The story of your mother and father begins many years ago. Let’s start with your father, Leander. Certainly, a lion among men. Big and fierce, but still had a kind and gentle heart. When he was a youth of about your age he was like you, an orphan. His mother took her own life after his father had died fighting in some battle that didn’t matter to some king that didn’t matter. He was left alone to wander the streets, a common beggar and peasant. Until one day, at about 18 he found a good friend of mine, a frail and poor elderly man, who was struggling to carry his bundle of grain. At first, he thought the man was an easy target to steal his grains from. But, your father being the righteous person he was couldn’t help but feel empathetic for the man. He helped the man carry his shipments home.

The man’s name was Thaddeus, and he was the most courageous and greatest man I had ever met. Your father carried his grains home expecting a bit of coin in compensation. What he offered him however your father was not expecting in the least. He offered him a place to stay for the night. And slowly one night suddenly became two, and three, until eventually he just offered your father the room if he would work the fields and assist Thaddeus as much as he was able. Thaddeus had no sons, and his wife had passed on many years before. Thaddeus took your father in as one of his own, teaching him things his own father would have taught him years before, showing him things he wanted to see, and giving him a brief glimpse at what he always wanted; a family.”